Drastic Measures
by mew-tsubaki
Summary: Oneshot. Ultimately, Hawthorne has twenty-four hours to make a decision. [Hawmitch] *Set after the destruction of Moby Dick; light T for a smidge of language & Hawthorne using his ability; cover art by me.


**Drastic Measures**

A Bungou Stray Dogs oneshot

by mew-tsubaki

Note: The _Bungou Stray Dogs_ characters belong to Asagiri Kafuka-sensei, not to me. A long oneshot because I NEED THESE TWO TO HAVE A HAPPY ENDING, NO MATTER WHAT. D8 Read, review, and enjoy! * **Note** : This follows a different interpretation following the events of the fall of Moby Dick, so no worries if you've not read much past ch34 or 35. c:

\- ^-^3

He sat ramrod straight on the bed, his feet planted firmly on the ground, adjusting his black cape. He hadn't been able to sit with such perfect posture in several weeks, and his usual clothes still didn't fit quite right because of the remaining aches and bruises, but, nevertheless, he was good as new. Hawthorne was ready for things to return to normal.

His eyes sidled to the other newly vacated cot in the medical quarters of Fitzgerald's new base in Yokohama. Just the other day, Mitchell had been asleep there, same as him, dressed in sterile whites and waiting for the remaining medical officers who'd made it safely from the airship to tell her the good news. And, since they'd told the duo they were nearly in good health once more, Mitchell had all but disappeared from Hawthorne's sight for the entire today.

Hawthorne frowned at that, and his frown deepened as he stood and put on his glasses. He recalled Alcott's assurances from later that same morning, that Mitchell was settling into her room at the Guild's new headquarters, that she probably was settling back into her routine.

And, yet, all he could think about was how Mitchell wouldn't meet his eyes.

He gently shook his head free of the observance. Surely he must've been mistaken. With all of the final check-ups and some such before being given the all-clear to leave the doctors' care, the partners hadn't had the chance to talk. Hawthorne would just have to make the effort and engage her in conversation if he so desired it.

A knock on the door brought him out of his mind. Melville popped his round head into the medical quarters and nodded with a sigh. "Good. You're dressed. You look better," he added after an odd beat. The older man scratched at his beard. "If you're up for it…"

"What is it?" Hawthorne asked, standing and locating his Bible. Ah, good. It was on the nightstand beside his cot. He picked it up and thumbed through it absentmindedly, the gesture calming. Though it would be more calming to be shown to his new room, now that he was no longer a resident in the doctors' care.

"It's a little late for lunch and a little early for supper, but Fitzgerald's called a meeting. A celebration, if you will, now that you and Miss Mitchell are well." He paused and frowned, a tiny crease forming between all the wrinkles at the apex of the bridge of his nose.

Hawthorne furrowed his brow. "Is something the matter, Melville?"

The seafarer sighed but shook his head. "Nothing, my friend. There are things to celebrate and things to discuss, and I, for one, am hungry." He cracked the door open a bit more and gestured for the man of God to join him, and Hawthorne did as much.

The new Guild base reminded Hawthorne of Fitzgerald's mansion—at least, the one the Guild had been using for their own purposes—back in California. There seemed to be many shut doors, and the house was very Western…although, once they went downstairs, the architecture shifted, and the color scheme of the beams and walls was Eastern, all chocolate brown and beige and no whites or creams or pastel blues or reds. The sliding doors, even, and the woven mat floors were decidedly Asian, although Fitzgerald apparently had spit in the face of the house's heritage, opting to place the same exact opulent dining set from their Californian base in the large room designated for eating. A dozen or so chairs surrounded the dining table, and Fitzgerald was there already, at the head, Alcott to his right.

"Good of you to join us," Fitzgerald said, his smile indomitably businesslike as ever. He tugged on his ascot and nodded to Melville as the older fellow sat to his left and Hawthorne sat on Melville's other side. Fitzgerald's snow blue eyes drifted to the dining room's entrance. "Ah, Miss Mitchell."

Hawthorne's attention snapped to her as she entered, followed by Steinbeck and Lovecraft. She tipped her head at Fitzgerald's acknowledgement before sitting on Alcott's other side, directly across from Hawthorne. Steinbeck sat beside her and Lovecraft beside Hawthorne and Fitzgerald began talking to the lot of them without waiting to see if Twain would join them, but Hawthorne's eyes didn't leave Mitchell's face.

Her eyes were focused on Fitzgerald…no, wait. They weren't. Actually, they weren't focused on really anything at all. Though she again wouldn't meet his eyes, Hawthorne caught a glimpse when her attention was disrupted as servers brought out a luxurious dinner from the kitchen.

Mitchell's eyes… There was something… _dead_ about them.

The realization chilled Hawthorne's blood, and his stomach flipped unpleasantly. Vaguely he could hear that Fitzgerald was still talking, but Hawthorne didn't force himself to listen. He was too busy steadying his hand as he reached for his glass of water and took a sip to settle his stomach.

Then he had the feeling of being watched, and he snapped back to their meal. All eyes—even those dead ones—were on him. "Oh, uh… My apologies," he spluttered, placing his water back on the table. In his haste, he put the glass down roughly and it tipped, spilling across the table into Mitchell's space. But she had no reaction.

Fitzgerald motioned to one of the servers to clean up the mess. Then he looked, unimpressed, at Hawthorne. "As I was saying… It's good to have you back, Mr. Hawthorne."

"Thank you," he mumbled. He tried to take some comfort from Alcott's, Melville's, and Steinbeck's smiles. They were more convincing than Fitzgerald's.

"In addition, I imagine you and Miss Mitchell will be ready to return to work by the end of the week, a few days at earliest."

Hawthorne thankfully minded his manners and didn't openly gape at their boss. "I'm sorry?"

"There are many plans to organize and execute," the businessman stated. He gripped the stem of his wine glass, perhaps a tad too tightly. But a frown from Alcott made him blink, and his hardness softened ever so slightly. "It's been an issue, having the Port Mafia join forces with the Armed Detective Agency. It's all hands on deck now." He held Hawthorne's gaze, and it was scary: His demeanor was half demanding like an employer's, half pleading like a friend's. "And we need everyone we can get."

Hawthorne went to remark but found his mouth had gone dry, Fitzgerald was that intimidating. He merely nodded his understanding.

"Glad we're all on the same page." The businessman gestured to the food, insisting they dig in and not let things go to waste while they were still warm. Only once his subordinates were well into their meals did he resume talking. "And, so that we are all up-to-date…"

Alcott squirmed in her seat, Hawthorne noted, and she began chewing her food at a snail's pace. No doubt she knew what was coming.

"Mr. Hawthorne and Miss Mitchell are well…but not all is well." Fitzgerald put his silverware down and clasped his hands together, resting his elbows on the table. "Miss Mitchell may not be entirely herself ever again."

Everyone save for Lovecraft, whose attention had been stolen as soon as the food had arrived, turned to Mitchell, who, like Lovecraft, was interested in her food more than anything else. After a moment, she picked her head up slowly and stared at Hawthorne, the first person in her line of vision. It was the first time she really had looked at him in a while, but it didn't feel right, with how lifeless her gaze was. Hawthorne had to swallow a lump in his throat.

"Unfortunately," Fitzgerald continued in the unnerving silence, "Miss Mitchell's injuries from the boat incident were exacerbated by the fall of Moby Dick. According to the medical staff, she has suffered a head injury which has caused her feelings to be rendered…inactive." He gesticulated as though there were no better word for the situation.

"What does that mean?" Melville asked, voicing the question bouncing around Hawthorne's brain.

Fitzgerald shrugged. "Simple: No feelings, flat affect." He looked at Mitchell as if she were some new addition to his collection of rare objects. "It's stunning, to say the least."

"Stunning"? That wouldn't have been the word Hawthorne would've chosen. Something was _wrong_ with her, _severely_ wrong. Wasn't Fitzgerald worried?

Apparently not. He shrugged again and nodded almost as if he were impressed. "This could be for the good, though." He even returned his attention to his plate, pushing the scraps around with his fork like a scientist figuring out how to begin a dissection.

At that, Hawthorne found his voice. "'For the _good_ '?" he hissed, which was much better than snarling at the other man, though Hawthorne was sorely tempted.

Alcott and Melville admonished their leader, as well, but Steinbeck exhaled slowly and nodded, too. "I agree."

Hawthorne turned on the younger man. "You _agree_?"

The blond raised his eyebrows. "In our line of work, emotions complicate things. Better not to have 'em."

Hawthorne narrowed his eyes at Steinbeck, feeling a vein throbbing at his temple. He glanced at Lovecraft, but Steinbeck's partner didn't seem particularly to care. Lovely. Three essentially for, three against, and Mitchell hung in the balance.

"Nathaniel," Melville intoned subtly. He gave Hawthorne a stern look and directed his eyes to the holy man's grip on his silverware.

It took great strength to release his knife and fork—especially the knife—but Hawthorne did. He also counted to three and took a breath, ignoring Alcott's look of concern while he tried to imagine that Fitzgerald hadn't been so nonchalant.

"It's a good thing, Hawthorne," Fitzgerald stated, eying him carefully. "It'll make work easier, as Steinbeck has pointed out."

"Pardon me," Hawthorne excused himself abruptly, getting up and putting his utensils and napkin beside his plate. All eyes were on him again as he left the table to retreat to his room—or at least to the medical quarters, if no one would show him the way—in all his fury.

But it only made him madder to know that one certain pair watched while nothing stirred within their owner.

\- ^-^3

Hawthorne…decided to give this new Margaret Mitchell a chance. That was the conclusion he reached the following morning, after a night of terrible, and somewhat fitful, sleep. And it was the only option he could come up with on such short notice.

But, as one day repeated after the previous, and the days didn't show much difference but rather melted into one unforgiving loop of silent greetings and cold meals and separate activities, Hawthorne began to muse that this scenario would persist in the long run. The idea didn't thrill him, but he wasn't a doctor, so there wasn't anything he could do to remedy the situation, either.

On the third day of poor interaction with the new Mitchell, Hawthorne escaped outside by himself before lunch. He reveled in the sun, shuddering as the coldness from his partner's newly acquired attitude released him with the backyard of Fitzgerald's estate between them, as Mitchell had remained inside, following Alcott around as the latter chattered unusually like a nervous chipmunk. It was frustrating and maybe disheartening, he supposed as he withdrew his cross from beneath his cape and blessed himself, to want to be so far from Mitchell. Certainly he'd wanted to escape her at times before the accident because she took the phrase "talking one's ear off" literally, but still…

The hand holding the cross lowered, and his eyes drifted to the golden-like mansion. He squinted in the sunlight at one of the mansion's many windows on the third floor, fighting the tired tug on his eyelids that the intricate ironwork around each individual pane induced. But he blinked when no shadows passed by, when no silhouette stopped by the sill, hoping to catch his eye.

Frowning, he did his best to push Mitchell and his worries out of his mind so that he could practice with his ability. It'd been weeks, and he felt rusty for the first half-hour, but the rust fell away as he drew more blood and practiced. The projectiles came easily, but his shield was weak. He threw the shield up four times, but it wouldn't improve. It was thin and translucent, and it caught the light funny when he tried to angle it.

He felt the breeze before she spoke, almost spooking him. "May I join you?" she asked, but, without any feeling in her tone, it came out like a statement.

Hawthorne glanced over his right shoulder, the shield fading away, not bothering to hide the frown at seeing Mitchell only a yard away. "Do as you please," he muttered, returning his attention to his cross and Bible, wondering if maybe any use could be made of a shield that couldn't defend him.

Mitchell said nothing in response. Instead, the gentle breeze picked up, and it turned into a gust that battered Hawthorne's makeshift target of a tree with precision, the bark sliced away in careful slivers that fluttered to the grassy earth.

The man of God paused and swallowed a lump in his throat. Her accuracy was frightening, and her control was decent. If she amped things up…she could be terrifying. He glanced at her again.

Her lifeless gaze met his lively and hurt one.

Yes. She really could be terrifying in this state.

However, Hawthorne squinted at the image of her, sensing something else was not quite right as she lifted her hands in gentle motions, directing the wind at the thinning tree. He took a step closer, eying her up and down, but she never stared back defiantly, the way the old Mitchell would have, sometimes with an angry crease between her eyebrows, other times with a natural rouge to her cheeks and the tip of her nose.

"Hold on… Where's your parasol?"

The wind picked up, and it might not have been one within Mitchell's control, for the next second her hat had been knocked off her head. Her gaze followed it up into the air and down onto the ground, but she made no movement to grab it. "In my room. Alcott said I should take it with me, but I didn't see her point. It's not raining."

He tensed at her flat words. No, more than that—hearing her call Alcott by anything other than "Louisa" didn't make sense. The two had had an odd sort of friendship that didn't make sense in their line of work, but they'd been certifiable bosom buddies nearly from the start. To hear Mitchell be so unfamiliar… "Mitchell, have you suffered any memory loss?" he asked quietly, hoping the worry didn't leak into his tone.

She shook her head. "No. Why?"

"You're never without your parasol. Or your hat," he added, punctuating his remark by stooping to grab the sunhat—a pale lavender ribbon wrapped around it, to match today's dress. He straightened up and batted the dirt and grass from it. He thought to hand it to her.

"Alcott insisted I wear it, and I don't see the point of that, either. But she wouldn't let me out of the house without it."

Hawthorne almost sighed at that point. He observed her forlornly, hating how her expression seemed more like a newborn's in that moment. Her eyes were still that lovely, gentle blue–violet…but they were just so… _blank_. So he tamped the hat down on her head, probably more roughly than he should have, and walked past her. "No. You shouldn't be without it," he confirmed.

"All right," she said simply, his back still to her. Then she resumed weathering the tree and its compatriots.

This time, as Hawthorne trudged back to the manse, he didn't look back over his shoulder. And why should he? She would look like Mitchell…but she wouldn't be Mitchell, not exactly. He doubted their teamwork could even be the same ever again, though he wasn't going to volunteer that information to Fitzgerald.

No. He couldn't work with this robotic impostor, this poor imitation of his partner. Not when he missed the old her, the _real_ her, and everything that entailed—her quirks, their conversations, even their bickering.

Yet what was he to do? His partner, truthfully, was gone.

\- ^-^3

Sometimes Hawthorne indulged those sad, dull moments, when the sense of loss swept him away and made him feel an enormous amount of grief. He'd clutch his cross, speaking silent prayers as his eyes scanned the Psalms and tried desperately to find him some relief, or at least advice, in the Word.

Other times, however, his temper would ignite. Just a tiny, little matchstick flame at first, then something that would grow and burn a deeper red than his life's blood whenever he tried to vent his anger outside in the backyard and sharpen his skills. It only infuriated him more when his shield morphed and looked damn near transparent by now. And of course those times of failure would be the times when Mitchell would find him and ask to join him. He'd grit his teeth and nearly snap at her—or at the others, upon returning to the mansion, but mostly he'd begun to wear his teeth out, grinding them down in a solid effort to withhold his temper. It wasn't the best solution, no, but his temper was getting the better of him, and it was extremely difficult to contain it whilst being around the robotic Mitchell.

After a late night spent reading Psalms back to front, Hawthorne thought to tame his anger and put his faith in the only thing that seemed like Mitchell's sure chance right now: God. God would heal her in due time, and the world would right itself once she was repaired. _Hawthorne's_ world would right itself once Mitchell was back on his case, being a flirtatious young woman in love with love and the foolhardy person who would jump in front of him every time he was in danger. She never was one to learn from her actions.

And, yet, it was hard to hold on to that faith as the days slogged on and no miracle fell from the sky. Hawthorne knew better than to expect instant gratification. But he was a holy man. He praised his Lord more than anyone did around the Guild, perhaps more than anyone did in Yokohama or in all of Japan. Was it wrong of him to wish for this one thing when he felt that he was one of God's most dedicated? That question kept him up on another night, and he found himself up on his feet, heading to his window to crack it open so he could watch the stars unblocked.

Down on the ground, a moving shadow caught Hawthorne's attention, but, even in the moonlight, he couldn't quite make out who it was. Turning on his heel, he slipped his feet into his boots and pulled on a robe, sensing no danger in this oncoming encounter.

And there was no danger. Several feet away, Melville's sloped form took shape on one of the two benches guarding either side of the pruned pathway up to the front of the house, and Hawthorne veered to the right to join the old man.

Melville picked his head up at Hawthorne's approach. Though it was hard to see beneath his white beard, which looked milky pale in the nighttime, he smiled briefly at the younger male. "You're up late," he pointed out uselessly.

"As are you." Hawthorne quirked an eyebrow, and he sat on the opposite end of the bench when Melville motioned for him to sit. "You're a night owl, Melville?"

"No." He even shook his head at that. "Just… Recent events seem to be weighing on my mind." He faced Hawthorne, and the latter disliked the sympathy he witnessed in those watery eyes. "I know holy men like to wake with God's creation, but this is before early, Hawthorne. What's on your mind?"

"I merely happened to see you down here…" His words trailed off when Melville's eyes developed that fatherly, don't-give-me-that-bull look to them. "…Mitchell, of course," he grumbled.

The seafarer sighed. "Of course."

Silence stretched on between them after those two syllables, and Hawthorne fidgeted on the bench. He wasn't cold, no; his robe was rather warm and cozy. But he knew Melville was waiting to hear the rest of the story. "I thought… I thought _He_ might fix her. But now I'm not sure."

Melville chuckled darkly. "Ah. Yes. You hold a higher power in high regards. I can understand your viewpoint." He observed Hawthorne quietly, not unlike the way he sometimes watched Fitzgerald, gauging just how crazy their boss might truly be. "…ah," he said again, his voice hushed. "You really mean it. Your doubts are growing."

Hawthorne grimaced. If anyone could get away with hinting that he was a Doubting Thomas, it was Melville and Melville alone.

The old man shook his head again and turned his gaze skyward, squinting in the moonlight as his eyes roamed over the stars. "I don't blame you, Nathaniel. To be frank, things have not gone the way we'd hoped, and not entirely the way Miss Alcott predicted. Having you two oversee the boat operation went topsy-turvy. Luring the man-tiger only went partially according to plan." He formed a fist on his left thigh and squeezed his fingers tight, continuing, "It's frustrating, so damn _frustrating_. I was supposed to have gone down with Moby Dick, my old friend… Poe was not supposed to have let the Armed Detective Agency's doctor go when he had her and their sleuth in his hands…"

Hawthorne had been searching for the right thing to say to get his comrade to unfurl that fist when the comment regarding the doctor caught him unawares. "We were going to capture their doctor?"

"We were supposed to, yes." Melville heaved a large sigh, sounding and looking very much like his age in that extended moment. "But Poe has that way about him, about losing fair and square, so he let Edogawa, the sleuth, and Yosano, the doctor, go. She would've been a huge advantage for us to have, even though I doubt she would've used her ability on any of us, should we have required her services."

The holy man's interest was piqued indubitably. "Her being their doctor, I assume she has a healing ability…"

Melville nodded and crossed his arms, resting them on his belly as he leaned back on the bench. "Yes. From the notes I've read from Miss Alcott, the doctor can fix any near-fatal wound. She'd make a wonderful captive. As I said, even if she refused to use her ability on the Guild, the Armed Detective Agency would be crippled without her." Seeing Hawthorne's face trained on him, he smiled sadly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't've brought her up, since Miss Mitchell's injuries are no longer fatal. She can't be healed, Nathaniel," he said quietly, and he went back to Moon-gazing as if that were the only solace he could offer his friend in the somber moment.

Hawthorne didn't see it that way, though. If anything, Melville had just given him renewed faith in miracles, because a golden piece of information had fallen not from the sky but from the old man's mouth. And Hawthorne's mind was churning with the blueprints of a plan.

\- ^-^3

A note was slipped under his bedroom door the next morning as the weekend arrived. Hawthorne had been too thrilled at the ideas forming in his head to sleep much, but what little sleep he _had_ gotten left him feeling refreshed. He smiled as he threw the covers off and walked to pick up the note to read.

Fitzgerald wanted to see him and Mitchell in his study.

Hawthorne's smile slipped, but he wouldn't grimace. He refused to do so. He'd been frowning far too much the past week, both in private and around the others, but he was done moping about the horrible circumstances.

The man of God got dressed, slipped his cross over his head, said a morning prayer, tucked his Bible in the crook of his arm, and went downstairs to the first floor. It surprised him that Fitzgerald's study was not on the third floor, as the rich man loved being higher, above everyone else, but there was no space despite the multitude of vacant rooms there. So, beside the dining room, Hawthorne marched to the mahogany door and knocked twice. The smell of biscuits in the dining room made his stomach growl, but he knew to take care of business matters first, since Fitzgerald was not a man to be kept waiting.

"Enter," Fitzgerald called from inside, and he didn't pick his head up as he finished writing something when Hawthorne did as ordered. Once he punctured a period at the end of his sentence, he put his pen down and rested his elbows on his desk, clasping his hands beneath his chin very much like the other night at dinner when he'd said it wasn't a big deal that Mitchell was without emotion. He didn't smile this time, but there was that mad amusement in his eyes, the glint he got whenever anything thrilling relating to the Japanese ability users came to his attention. "Ah. Mr. Hawthorne. Wonderful."

Hawthorne glanced to either side, observing it was only the two men in the study. "Shall we wait for Miss Mitchell?"

Fitzgerald shook his head. Hawthorne hated that the blond businessman's coif stayed completely still when he did that; he certainly used too much product. "No matter. I can inform her later or have Miss Alcott bring her up to speed. Now that she's lacking feelings, she seems to follow Alcott around like a baby duck looking for guidance, though she doesn't always take it from what I hear. Have you seen her going around without her parasol?"

The subordinate clenched his jaw and hoped the motion wasn't noticeable. Of _course_ he'd noticed that. He would notice anything when it came to Mitchell. They were partners. Maybe…maybe even friends, though he squirmed internally at the label. Regardless, he knew Mitchell, just as she knew him. And he was willing to bet Fitzgerald wouldn't have even realized something was wrong with her right away without the medical staff informing him of what had occurred.

"Never mind that," Fitzgerald droned on, dismissing the free thought with a wave of his right hand. He sifted through the papers on his desk, found what he was searching for, and held it out for Hawthorne to take. "I have a mission for you and Miss Mitchell. Tomorrow, one o'clock in the afternoon. Capture of the Armed Detective Agency's newest addition. Draw out the man-tiger again, since he'll come after her."

Hawthorne took the details and openly frowned. "Draw out…?" He wondered if the sigh could be heard in his voice.

Judging by how Fitzgerald's cold blue eyes shone, it was heard. "We've a better plan this time, now that the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia think we're defeated. Miss Alcott has suggested that they're keeping their truce intact for now, but working together stopped the moment they thought they won."

Hawthorne skimmed the orders. "And tomorrow."

"Their defenses are down. I'm sure celebrations have been had." Fitzgerald's eyes glided over the other papers on his desk, and he began tidying them up. "Time to hit them when they least expect it."

Hawthorne nodded his understanding and took leave when Fitzgerald jerked his head towards the door. But when Hawthorne pulled the door shut behind him, his hand lingered on the doorknob. That wasn't what he'd meant, about tomorrow. It still felt too soon to return to the field. Not only was his command over his ability not up to snuff, but he hadn't practiced with Mitchell, despite the number of times she'd asked to join him. He'd left directly after each time, and he hadn't tried spending any time with her even though he'd sworn to give this new version of her a chance.

But tomorrow? That wasn't a hell of a lot of time to put his plan into action. And it wasn't even complete yet.

The holy man grabbed a light breakfast from the dining room and returned to his room, where he holed up for the rest of the day. He spent his time absentmindedly eating his rationed breakfast while giving the impression of reading his Bible.

In reality, he was sketching his plans on the paper, in his mind. He daren't write anything down for real. No, he couldn't. He knew what it would mean, following through with this plan…but saving Mitchell was worth it. And, if he was to pull this off without a hitch, he couldn't leave anything behind that he'd have to take the time to destroy.

His nerves rattled him, and he got up and began pacing. He took out his cross and drew his blood, forming that lame shield again, but this time he noticed something about the altered shield that he hadn't known he'd need until now. With how it caught the light…

Perfect.

For the first time in a long while, Hawthorne experienced a spark of hope, and it was hard to fight back the smile from this morning now that hope had flamed to life and would not go out. Nevertheless, he tamped down his excitement and went about the day as usual, joining Melville and Steinbeck for lunch, the others keeping to themselves. Then it was back to his room for silent meditation over Revelations and more tests with the new discovery about his altered ability until dinner. Finally, one by one, the house's inhabitants grew quiet with the day's end and the call of sleep.

Once he was certain he wouldn't be noticed, Hawthorne looked around his room and found he was glad he'd led just this side of an impoverished life. He had a few extra pieces of clothing, but no trinkets to worry about needing to take with him for sentiment's sake. He double-checked what he _was_ wearing—the same old black boots but the sturdiest and least-worn of his habits—and then patted his pocket. The emergency monetary fund he'd gathered from bills tucked into his Bible over the past several years should help beyond tonight, if they made it that far. Speaking of which, he clenched his Bible in his grip, readjusted his glasses on his nose, and patted his cross through the cloth of his cape. Ready to go, Hawthorne twisted the handle to his room slowly and quietly, and he dragged the door open centimeter by centimeter. The door complied and didn't loose a sound.

With the door propped open wide enough, Hawthorne slipped through. He pulled the door shut behind him, in the same manner as he'd opened it, and it closed quietly, the handle never clicking into place even as it was shut tight. Now he stood in the hallway of the third floor, squinting in the darkness while his eyes adjusted. After, he peered up both ends of the hallway, and then he crossed diagonally to the door at the dead end. He raised his hand automatically to knock, but he remembered at the last minute that the plan could be foiled if he decided to rely on manners.

He tried the handle. To his luck, it turned, and he could repeat his actions as he'd done with his door.

Inside, he found Mitchell lying in her bed, dressed in a nightgown and tucked neatly into the covers. She was so still and obviously hadn't tossed or turned in her sleep; it was eerie, and he would've thought her dead if he hadn't kept his eyes open to the point of burning just so that he might glimpse the rise and fall of her chest.

He padded silently as he could to her side and placed a warm hand on her covered shoulder. "Mitchell," he said lowly. He had to; a whisper was too shrill, might be heard. "Mitchell," he repeated, this time more earnestly. They didn't have much time.

One sleepy blue–violet eye popped open, followed by the other when she recognized him. "Hawthorne," she stated. "What are you doing here?"

He chewed the inside of his cheek. Entering a lady's room in the middle of the night had been his first sin. Lying would be his next. "Change of plans. Get dressed. We're leaving now."

"Alcott said the mission's tomorrow."

Here came the lie: "Fitzgerald told me otherwise. We're getting a head start. Here," he added, holding a gentlemanly hand out so she could maneuver more easily out of bed.

She stared at him for a fraction of a second, but then she took his hand and stood. For that, Hawthorne was grateful she lacked the emotion known as doubt, because the normal Mitchell would've certainly been skeptical of his arrival and declaration.

But his gratitude didn't last long, and he nearly forgot to be quiet when he hissed, " _What are you doing_?!"

"Getting dressed," she stated, continuing to unbutton the front of her nightgown. Apparently embarrassment had been kissed goodbye along with everything else.

Hawthorne wheeled around to give her privacy, determined that he wouldn't sin for a _third_ time that night. "Hurry up," he spluttered, heat rising in his cheeks.

Mitchell said nothing in response, but, after three agonizing minutes, she tapped him on his left shoulder and turned him around. She'd dressed in one of her usual dresses. The blue one, he realized, one of her favorites. He recognized it by its design since everything looked black and blue in the room with only the moonlight pouring in through her lone window.

"Good," he said at last, wishing he could've stood there a while longer to admire the picture. She almost looked herself this way.

"Wait." She scurried back to her open closet. When she turned around to face him again, she had the matching hat clutched in her grasp. "You said I shouldn't be without it."

He blinked, surprised she'd remembered his comment. "Let's go," he said in the end, because he was afraid that anything else he said right now would come out with terrible timing. Heart-to-hearts were to be had with the old Mitchell, _his_ Mitchell, not this android.

Mitchell also surprisingly grabbed her parasol on their way out, and she stuck to him while he carefully closed her room behind them. They'd done well to make as little sound as possible so far, and he was glad that this Mitchell at least was letting him take lead.

They glided silently to the staircase end of the corridor and paused at the landing. Hawthorne glanced down at her behind his left shoulder. "Whatever happens, stick close to me." He held up one finger of his Bible-free hand and lifted the others in turn as he continued. "Don't make a sound unless I tell you. Run if I run. Be prepared to use your ability if anyone comes after us—and I mean _anyone_. Most importantly, do not look back." He paused, smiled grimly, and added, just in case the old Mitchell glimmered beneath the surface, "And no saving my life if I'm in dire straits. Understand?"

Mitchell nodded. She pressed her small frame against his back, even, and Hawthorne jolted at the unexpected contact. She was taking the sticking part literally. …well, it wasn't the worst thing to happen.

Hawthorne lifted his cross up and cut into his palm, summoning the new "shield," and then the duo proceeded down the stairs. He wasn't completely certain that Fitzgerald had had the time, but he couldn't rule out the presence of security cameras in the mansion, and he knew about the security detail on the ground floor—that he'd witnessed when coming to find Melville outside the other night. But, either way, his new shield proved him right. It was no longer a shield but a kind of invisibility cloak, the blood shifting and the color morphing as the cells moved and the light hit them at different angles. Better yet, because the blood didn't need to gather to form a thick shield for protection, this thinner cloak he could spread wider, to cover the both of them, and, though it took the painstaking better part of an hour, Hawthorne and Mitchell left the mansion and exited the grounds, and the holy man kept the cloaking up until he was certain that they were far from the edge of the property and Fitzgerald's influence.

After that, they broke into a run.

All the while, Hawthorne's heart hammered in his chest. He knew what it meant, leaving the Guild. In the middle of the night, too, of all things. He knew what Fitzgerald thought of the "weak," but… Hawthorne had stopped giving a damn ages ago, when he and Mitchell had first landed in the medical bay aboard the Moby Dick. He probably knew the exact moment, too: when he'd threatened Fitzgerald. He smiled darkly, his breathing becoming labored—

—but Mitchell pinched his sleeve and reached for his wrist, to hold on.

Perhaps the gesture meant nothing at all. But Hawthorne liked to think that maybe his efforts weren't in vain, that she wanted to be saved, deep down, that somewhere inside her she knew things were off.

After fifteen minutes, they lessened their speed and cooled down, descending into a walk. They kept off the main roads until they approached what seemed to be a town or city, and then Hawthorne was careful in selecting a ride out of there. He eventually found a poor man, the owner of a rundown flower shop, on his way to visit his brother in the next town over, and the man took one look at the two foreigners, likely spied Mitchell's grip on Hawthorne and read into the situation, and kindly agreed to take them as far as he could, free of charge.

Hawthorne thanked him, and he and Mitchell climbed into the back of the delivery truck and nestled themselves amongst the bouquets meant for transport. After the man had latched the doors, Hawthorne frowned, disliking that they couldn't see outside this way…but he had to have _some_ faith, even if only a little. That was what would keep him going.

He peeked down at Mitchell to his left. He could barely make out her profile in the darkness, but he had the sense that she was wide awake.

"Sleep," he whispered.

Mitchell shook her head. It was the only time she defied him that night.

\- ^-^3

The flower man's journey got them halfway there, and Hawthorne left him a monetary thank-you tucked between some peonies and carnations. From there, the partners walked some of the way and caught two more rides, though Hawthorne didn't like the way the couple in the latter car had eyed Mitchell's garments so curiously. It was unfortunate they couldn't blend in and that Hawthorne couldn't cloak them the whole way.

It took all night, but the sun was jogging into the sky when at last they arrived at the Armed Detective Agency. Or, he supposed it was the Armed Detective Agency. Hawthorne mentally ran down the information from Fitzgerald's orders and the bits and pieces he'd gleaned from previous orders he recalled, as well as from notes of Alcott's he'd seen a few times when the strategist had scurried around and dropped her ideas all over the place.

The café, Uzumaki, on the first floor. The seemingly inconspicuous office building right on top. Both items fit so pleasantly into the urban neighborhood. Perhaps, even, in another lifetime, Hawthorne might've invited Mitchell to dine at the café for a respite. But those were thoughts, daydreams meant to be indulged later.

He peeked through the café windows, not stunned to find the place was closed. It was quite early, even for this kind of restaurant. Still…it was known that the Armed Detective Agency hung around the place…

…because their offices were right above.

Hawthorne bit his bottom lip and surveyed the storefront, locating the concrete stairwell he assumed would lead them to the correct door inside. He climbed it, Mitchell right behind him. And he knocked.

No one answered.

Internally, he cursed. Then, also internally, he apologized for cursing in front of a lady. But, really, it was a cursing kind of predicament.

Hawthorne knocked again, hope slipping through his fingers as he lost his patience and began pounding on the door, knowing that _someone_ was around the Armed Detective Agency, _someone_ had to be, at least _one_ person. They _had_ to be, because they'd come this far…they'd risked their lives…

He smacked the door with his flat, open palm, a critical detail floating back to the surface of his mind as he leaned his head against the door, sliding down to his knees, Mitchell watching him crumble before her.

Of course the place was empty. No one was around. No one had been since shortly after the Guild's arrival. The Armed Detective Agency had gone underground as a result of the Port Mafia's increased number of attacks. They'd emerged, of course, to make that truce and fight against the Guild, but Hawthorne had no clue as to whether they'd returned, or if they'd come back at all. After all, everyone knew of these offices…well, the people who really knew the situation with ability users knew these offices.

The man of God sighed, a sob stuck in his throat, and he flipped around, landing on his behind and drawing his knees up to pin his head between them. He ran his hands through his gray hair, his Bible by his side and no longer giving him comfort. He'd screwed up. He'd _really_ screwed up. It was only a matter of time before they were killed. So he supposed he could spend that time wondering _who_ was going to turn up and kill them.

Mitchell knelt in front of him, placing her parasol on the ground beside his Bible. She stared at him long enough for him to sense it, and she blinked slowly when he finally lifted his head. "When do we start the mission?" she asked.

He choked back a wet cough. Of course she wouldn't realize the broken man before her. He sat up a little straighter and patted the empty spot to his right, and he waited until she'd tucked her legs under her before continuing. "It's…it's started. It's a trap, you see."

Her stare was as blank as ever, but it was somehow trustful.

"When they show up, I'll do all the talking. Don't listen to it. It's…it's a trap. We'll hit them where it hurts."

Mitchell nodded, and they waited quietly. When five minutes passed, she rested her head against his shoulder, and she went to sleep. And, for Hawthorne, who'd just experienced the most terrifying night of his life, it was hard not to follow suit.

\- ^-^3

He woke before they arrived. Their footsteps, though quiet, echoed in the empty stairwell, and he tensed as they approached. Though he didn't want to, Hawthorne woke his partner when he tensed, but he held a finger to his lips, reminding her to let him talk.

The first head popped up and belonged to the one everyone knew as "Dazai." He cocked his head to the side, curious to see the duo, and he smiled. It was an eerie smile that belied something else, something sinister…which made sense. Hawthorne had read the file the Guild had on him. It clicked that Dazai had been a former member of the Port Mafia, seeing how easy that creepy smile blossomed on his tanned face.

Two steps later, the second head emerged, and a blond boy definitely younger than Steinbeck, likely also younger than Montgomery, arrived beside Dazai. He was chipper and wore overalls like Steinbeck, but he also had a straw hat tied around his neck. Hawthorne couldn't remember reading about him, but the connection was obvious since he was with Dazai.

Dazai turned to his companion and smiled a bit more gently. "Looks as though it's a good thing I brought you with me, Kenji-kun."

Kenji nodded and smiled at the partners. "You guys know it's not safe to sleep outside someone's door, right?"

Hawthorne tensed again, his eyes darting between the two Agency members. "I do know."

"Then why are you here?" Dazai asked, narrowing his eyes to dark slits.

Hawthorne swallowed the lump forming in his throat, but it kept coming back, and it was hard to talk around. He looked at Mitchell and lightly pushed her away from his arm, but only so that he could get up to speak, eye to eye, with Dazai…although, standing, he was a head and a half taller than the man, who stood on the second step. "I'm sure you know who we are."

Dazai's dark eyes were unblinking.

"…I'm Nathaniel Hawthorne. This is my partner, Margaret Mitchell. We've left the Guild."

Kenji gaped openly at him, and he looked back and forth between the holy man and the lady. Only Dazai didn't flinch. In fact, he looked as though he was waiting for the rest. It was eerie, how much he reminded Hawthorne of Fitzgerald, what with that calculating scrutiny.

So Hawthorne bent his head and clambered to his knees, until he was prostrate in front of the Agency members. " _Please_! I beg of you! I know of Dr. Yosano's ability. Miss Mitchell and I almost died in the Port Mafia's attack at the docks. But she—" Hawthorne swallowed. It didn't feel right, admitting this to their enemies. But still… If Mitchell was to have a chance… "Mitchell isn't right. And I truly believe only your doctor can heal her. So _please_. Please heal her. I beg of you," he repeated, squeezing his eyes shut tight, his head bent so low that his glasses began to slip from his face.

The landing and stairwell were quiet. Mitchell shifted in her spot and reached for Hawthorne, but he didn't leave his position even when she reached again for his sleeve.

Finally, after an excruciating minute, Dazai sighed, so Hawthorne dared to raise his head and look at him.

"I can't really sign off on that."

Hawthorne's heart sank through the floor.

"But," the dark-haired man continued when Kenji pouted at him, "I know that our director would want to hear the story himself." Dazai took the last step to the landing and crouched down. He reached out and touched Hawthorne's shoulder and Mitchell's forearm, and then he smiled, though it wasn't as disturbing this time. He turned over his shoulder. "Your turn, Kenji-kun." He pointed to his own neck, at the point where neck became shoulder. "I'd say right about here, just a light tap, and that'll do the trick."

The blond boy nodded and practically skipped over to the partners. He crouched down beside Dazai, his grin wide and maybe a tad goofy. "Goodnight~" he chirped, and he reached for that pressure point on Hawthorne and Mitchell at the same time, and then it was lights out for the both of them.

\- ^-^3

"…thing we installed a few pinhole cameras around the office headquarters and the café…"

"…blowhard. You work too much, Kunikida."

"…say?! It's thanks to _me_ that we know! I was the one watching at that moment—"

"Wait. Hush. Hawthorne's awake."

Indeed, Hawthorne came around fully at the mention of his name, and he picked his head up, sitting up on a brown, ratty, old couch…in God knew where. He looked around the room, with its few shelves and table and three empty chairs, but something told him that he and Mitchell were far from the Agency's main office. He wondered if they were even still in Yokohama. How long had he been knocked out?

A man shorter than Dazai but also with dark hair took a step forward. He cocked his head to the left and then bent his whole body to the left while he observed the former Guild member. He grinned, and it was sketchy like Dazai's but more so because of his shifty eyes half hidden by his newsboy's cap. "Yep. Definitely awake. And definitely confused."

"Ranpo." Ah. The first voice, the deep one, belonged to the older man with white hair—something tickled the back of Hawthorne's brain, and he remembered that this was the Agency's director, Fukuzawa. Making that "Ranpo" the very same Edogawa whom Poe had let escape. By process of elimination, that made the blond standing irritably beside Dazai the owner of the third, remaining mystery voice, Kunikida. "Back away and let him get his footing."

"Director, are you sure?" Kunikida asked, his eyes flitting from Dazai's bemused smirk to Hawthorne's form on the couch to Fukuzawa.

"It's fine, it's fine," Dazai hummed. "I negated both their abilities. We're good for now."

Kunikida's green expression conveyed that he didn't buy that.

"Please…," Hawthorne rasped. His throat was dry and scratchy, and a glass of water appeared over his shoulder. Hawthorne took it and glanced over his shoulder, only to do a double-take when he saw the man-tiger standing there, a nervous smile to match Kunikida's on his face. For a second, Hawthorne forgot to drink.

But the director reminded him. "Drink," Fukuzawa ordered, drawing Hawthorne's attention back to him. "Then, as Dazai correctly told you, I would like to hear your plea myself. You must understand my disbelief, finding two _ex_ -members of the Guild on our front doorstep."

Hawthorne nodded. He sipped the water, decided it wasn't poison and that things couldn't get worse even if it turned out to be poison, and downed the rest of it, ignoring the wave of nausea that struck him as the water settled in his empty stomach, and he swung his legs down off the couch to plant his feet on the stone ground. Good Lord. Really, where _had_ they taken him?

No, wait. _Them_. Where had they taken _them_?

"Mitchell—"

"—is resting in another room. She's tired," someone else said, and this woman's heels clicked and echoed in the room as she rounded the couch and took the director's other side, opposite Edogawa. She wore a butterfly clip in her hair, but it contrasted the severity of her gait.

Nevertheless, he believed her when she said his partner was fine. He nodded his thanks to her before giving the Agency director his attention. "Please," he implored. "I came here— _we_ came here. Because of my partner."

"Dazai mentioned you know of Yosano's ability," Fukuzawa stated. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened, grew sharper as he narrowed his eyes at Hawthorne.

"Of course. The Guild has files on almost everyone at the Armed Detective Agency." Hawthorne grimaced, not sure he liked how quickly the color came flooding back to Kunikida's face at that statement or how Edogawa's little slits for eyes cracked open a fraction upon hearing his words. "We had to, to know what we were getting into…" He stopped there, partially for fear of what they might do depending on what else he said, partially because he hadn't come here to _betray_ the Guild. No. He just wanted to leave and be done with it and save Mitchell.

Edogawa closed his eyes once more and peered up at the director. Then he faced the woman's way, and the three of them appeared to have a silent conversation while Kunikida and Dazai stared Hawthorne down. Suddenly, Edogawa threw his arms up, locking them lazily behind his head, and he moaned loudly. "Ahh, I'm bored. I'm gonna let you guys handle this and I'm gonna go play my DS." Without so much as a protest from the others, he turned and sauntered away, leaving the room through what Hawthorne realized was the only exit.

Hawthorne returned his attention to the other four, still aware of the man-tiger standing behind him, behind the couch. "Please. Ask your doctor to heal my partner," he resumed, and he tried to stand. But he couldn't—not because he was injured but because his legs were too weak to hold him up after last night's travels. So he remained sitting. He reached under his cape to find his cross for comfort, but it was missing. Panicking, he patted the cushions beside him and found his Bible.

"We had to take precautions, just in case," Dazai told him when Hawthorne breathed a tiny sigh of relief.

Hawthorne glared at him, but he didn't want to point out that the cross would be useless if his ability had been disabled momentarily.

"Why should we do anything you suggest?" Fukuzawa asked, getting them back on track.

"Because I came here of my own free will," the man of God replied. "I know that the Guild might kill me. I know that you might kill me. But I still believe your doctor is our only chance. So I came here."

"Yes, you mentioned," the director confirmed, and Hawthorne found it unnerving how the man could stand so rigidly still. The discipline that took… It put him in awe of Fukuzawa, just a tad. "You said that _you_ came here of your own free will. But what about your partner?"

It felt as though cold water had been splashed in his face. He didn't want to explain everything. It hurt too much to think about all that had changed…but the look in Fukuzawa's eyes told him that telling them the whole story was the only way to get them to even consider his request. "She…doesn't understand free will. Not right now."

The confusion was open on Kunikida's and the woman's faces. Dazai seemed more interested than before, but the director gave no indication that he was surprised.

"Mitchell saved me during the Port Mafia's bombing of our boat several weeks ago."

Dazai nodded. "Kajii's work," he mumbled to the others.

"Despite her best efforts, that landed both of us in the hospital," Hawthorne continued, an edge to his voice as he wondered if Dazai or anyone else would add their commentary. When no one did, he added, "She was unconscious far longer than I was, and we were laid up for weeks. Eventually we were moved to the appropriate arrangements aboard the Moby Dick, and we were closer to healing when the airship began its descent and crashed." The bruises and aches he hadn't thought about for a week throbbed at the memories. "We were secured so that we might be rescued after the fall, and we were. But the lack of planning led to a slightly longer recovery period for the both of us, and…" Hawthorne's words faded, and he had to remind himself to breathe as he forced the last part out. "We healed to the point where Fitzgerald wanted us working again. But Miss Mitchell was not healed fully. She endured more, extensive head trauma in the fall, and she has no feelings anymore."

The room went very quiet following his confession. Finally, the man-tiger squeaked behind him, "What do you mean, no feelings?"

Hawthorne gave him a brief, dry look over his shoulder. "Exactly what it sounds like." He looked back to the adults. "She feels nothing. No emotions. I doubt pain registers with her. And she has no sense of free will, because that would require desire to make her choices. I asked her to come with me, and she did. And I came because I cannot leave my partner in this state. She's not herself this way." Pouring this much of himself out before the enemy left him in turmoil, and the holy man rested his elbows on his knees and folded his hands, resting his head against them as he squeezed his eyes shut and wished, _sorely_ wished this were all just a dream.

The Armed Detective Agency members stayed quiet while they deliberated. After a minute, someone's shoes scuffed the floor, and the woman's red pumps came into Hawthorne's line of sight. She peered down at him and touched his shoulder so that he'd look at her. She smiled warmly, though the upward curve of her lips was subtle. "I'll help you."

It took him a second to understand the meaning of her words. "You're—the doctor? Yosano?"

Yosano nodded, but there was a steely glint to her eyes. "I want to help you, but we have a condition." She turned to her boss and Dazai. "We're in agreement?"

They nodded, though Kunikida vigorously shook his head. Dazai slapped him heartily on the back before speaking up. "Hawthorne, right now my ability has negated your ability," he said cheerily. Then his eyes narrowed again, and that confident, cocky smirk appeared. "Our condition is that we'll help you only if you agree to having me bind your powers and your partner's."

The wave of nausea returned and crashed like a tidal wave inside Hawthorne. Behind him, the man-tiger gasped as though something had clicked into place for him. "Oh! Like with Ozaki-san?" he asked.

Dazai nodded but gave the man-tiger a soft grin. "Kind of like with Kouyou-nee-san, yes, Atsushi-kun." He dragged his eyes back to Hawthorne, his eyes not as warm as a second ago when they were on the man-tiger. "Well?" he prompted.

"Bind…?"

"We shouldn't have to do anything that gains us nothing," Dazai explained. "Doing this removes two pawns from the chessboard, in our favor."

Dazai misunderstood Hawthorne's fear. It wasn't that he didn't want to be out of the game. It was just—well, he'd known that the Agency had someone who could stop abilities. But, to _bind_ them, render them completely ineffective? It was terrifying. How had Dazai not made the entire ability user world his by now?

Clearly, Dazai understood what was going through his brain. He smiled, and it gave Hawthorne chills. But…

Hawthorne's hesitation didn't last. "…all right."

Yosano's eyes widened, as did Dazai's. Kunikida gaped at him.

"But—but, please, bind only mine first." He met each pair of eyes in turn, starting and ending with Yosano. "Bind mine, and let me discuss it with Miss Mitchell after she's healed. I'll—I'll convince her that this is the only way, that her powers must be bound, too. Just please heal her."

The doctor nodded and offered him a hand up, eliciting a choke of objection from Kunikida, but Dazai slapped him on the back again. Dazai jerked his head to the man-tiger. "Atsushi-kun, if you would do the honors."

Hawthorne had time enough to wonder what that meant before his vision went black.

\- ^-^3

Perhaps an hour later, Hawthorne woke with two strong feelings: a) he really hated losing track of time, and b) he was sick of being knocked out by the Armed Detective Agency. His annoyance with them only grew when he sat up in a cot in yet another room—this one all white and silver, sterile like the medical bay and quarters at the Guild—and found Dazai perched on the edge of the mattress. At least the bastard wasn't smiling this time.

Instead, he was watching Hawthorne's every movement. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Tired. Irritable."

"That's not what I meant."

Hawthorne massaged the back of his neck, where the man-tiger had hit him, but something else felt different, too. He paused to wonder what it was. He stared at his open palms and flexed and extended his fingers, feeling completely normal… _utterly_ normal. There was no longer a thrum in his blood, the call of his ability. He blinked twice and a third time when Dazai dangled his cross within reach. Hawthorne took it, and the metal felt exactly like that—metal. It was only a cross now, not the tool with which he'd demonstrate his ability, because he no longer had one. "How did you do it?"

Dazai grinned. "Trade secret~" He stood to leave.

"Wait! What about Margaret?" the holy man desperately inquired.

"…Yosano-san is still working," the dark-haired man replied. "She can't just touch someone and heal them, you know."

"No, I do." Hawthorne recalled Melville's words. "Her injuries aren't fatal."

"Right. So, the good doctor has to make her patient's injuries fatal before she can heal them."

Bile rose in the back of Hawthorne's throat. He apologized internally to Mitchell for putting her through more pain, but he knew that the outcome would be worth it. After all, the Agency members endured the pain to keep the doctor and her ability around, so obviously her ability would do the trick. That line of thought offered him little solace, however, so he ignored it and looked at Dazai. "Please…let me know when I can talk to her."

Dazai nodded and then left the room.

It felt strange, being in this sterile room, fully dressed on the cot, his cross back in his hands. His Bible was on the nightstand—not unlike his set-up back at the mansion—and he grabbed it, flipping through it to preoccupy him.

But the wait was excruciating. At one point, someone knocked on the door, and the man-tiger popped his head in. Off the battlefield, he was more fidgety rabbit than prowling tiger, and his smile was just as nervous as before when he held a food tray up. "Uh, hello again…"

Hawthorne returned to reading Proverbs.

"I brought you some food. And…sorry for hitting you." He waited an awkward moment more before sighing and placing the tray on the tiny card table just inside the door, and then he, too, left.

But Hawthorne ignored the food just as he'd ignored the man-tiger. Even Proverbs began to swim on the page before him. All he could think was that Mitchell would be okay. She would _have_ to be okay. He'd worry about their Guild-free lives later…if that were even a possibility. But it _had_ to be, since they'd made it this far. So he held on to his Bible, gripping the spine as he mindlessly turned the pages and feigned reading to calm his mind and to comfort his heart. But it was tough to focus.

He'd flipped grimly to Revelations and was halfway through the passage on the Four Horsemen when Dazai returned. Dazai knocked once on the doorjamb to grab his attention, and then he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. "She's awake."

Nothing had ever pulled Hawthorne to his feet faster, even though he stumbled to the door and had to accept a steadying arm from Dazai. Once it was clear Hawthorne could stand fine on his own two feet, Dazai led him down the long hallway, stone like the floor of the first room Hawthorne had been in, and took two rights before motioning to a door-less entryway on the left. Hawthorne rushed past him, and the two former Guild members were left alone to reunite.

Mitchell looked _tired_. It wasn't just the bags under her eyes. She had that heavy air about her, as if succumbing to gravity's pull on her. She was dressed in a white, Japanese hospital gown and sitting up in an adjustable bed—the doctor's worktable, Hawthorne guessed. The muted teal color of the bed only made things seem sadder in the room, and he ignored the hazardous waste bin overflowing with bloodstained towels.

In spite of all of that, he could see it when he approached her: Mitchell looked _tired_ …but she looked _well_ , too.

And she confirmed that for him when he stood beside her and she looked up at him, that old spark of life burning brilliantly in her eyes. Her brow even knit together, and he had to bite back a joyous laugh when he realized she was _angry_ with him. "You!" she snapped.

Hawthorne pulled a nearby stool over and sat beside her, his smile wide and his heart swelling in light of their success. "Me," he said, unable to deny her the bickering.

"You foolish man!" With every word out of her mouth, the angry flame in her blue–violet eyes burned brighter than blue fire, and her cheeks puffed out and reddened. "You _foolish man_!" Mitchell repeated. "Do you have any idea what you've done?!"

He furrowed his brow, but he wasn't sorry at all, not in the least bit. How could he be, when Mitchell sat here, alive and well, her hair a free, untamed mess around her face, her eyes trained on him maybe to kill, her lips forming a beautiful pout _at him_?

Then that pout broke, and the next thing Hawthorne saw was her hair out of the corner of his left eye. She'd thrown her arms around him, and she was hugging him. " _Thank you_ …!" she whispered, her voice suspiciously wet.

Hearing that, it was hard not to cry himself. Instead, he hugged her tightly, too, relishing the life flowing through her once more. Only once they were both satisfied did they break apart, but he held on to her left hand, not content to be rid of all contact, not yet. "I'm sorry for bringing you here."

"I was upset about that, too—at first." Mitchell's eyes lingered on her hand in his, and her cheeks were rosy as the pad of his thumb rubbed a warm line across the backs of her knuckles. She forced her eyes to meet his. "Imagine my surprise when I realized the Agency's doctor was putting me back together after nearly killing me."

"Oh. She—"

Mitchell shook her head. "She already explained that to me, her ability."

He frowned. "Did she…also mention their condition?"

The cock of her head told him "no."

He sighed. "They said they would heal you, if we agreed to have our powers sealed."

Mitchell was taken aback, as if she'd been slapped. "' _Sealed_ '?" she echoed.

He nodded. "I already had them take care of mine, so that they'd fix you. A Margaret Mitchell without her vivacity is no Margaret Mitchell at all."

The sincerity in her eyes told him that Yosano had explained what had been fixed. "Oh, Hawthorne…" Something else was on the tip of her tongue, but she pursed her lips and said, after a brief moment, "All right. They can take my power, too."

"What?" He blinked at her, stunned. He hadn't expected her ready agreement. He also thought he'd have to bring it up; after all, he'd told the Agency that he'd convince her…but, apparently, she didn't need convincing. Now he was the angry one, believing she'd gone on one of her whims and hadn't thought her answer through. "Hold on. Realize what this means. We'll be defenseless if the Guild comes after us, Margaret."

Perhaps Yosano's ability had worked a little too well and removed Mitchell's manners, as she snorted and rolled her eyes at him. "The Guild might not even bother with us, Nathaniel. We'll be safe to live around normal people if we don't have our abilities." She flipped his hand over and entwined their fingers, but she clasped his hand and pointed at him with her index finger. "However, if you'd told me we'd have to _join_ the Armed Detective Agency, I would've slapped you silly. Leaving the Guild is one thing. But I won't fight Louisa, or any of the others. I won't fight people who were our friends." She narrowed her eyes at him and her brow sank further, but the angry look was more adorable than intimidating, and he had to fight back another laugh.

But he understood what she was saying, and he nodded in agreement, thinking of Melville's friendship, Alcott's nervous chatter, Steinbeck's enviable carefree attitude—even Twain's arrogant ways that never failed to lighten the mood of every room he entered.

"So," she said.

"So," he agreed.

"When do we give the Agency their good news?"

\- ^-^3

When Mitchell next woke, Hawthorne was there, right by her side. Dazai had come to them half a minute after Mitchell had made up her mind, and he'd ushered Hawthorne out of the room so that he could do the binding. But, afterward, he'd let Hawthorne carry her back to the second room Hawthorne had found himself in in the Agency's underground territory. As with him, it'd taken her the better part of an hour to come around after having her power sealed, but she looked relieved to see him again when she opened her eyes.

She sat up slowly and pulled the hospital gown tighter around her. She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips. "I… I don't feel the pull of my breath. Nor the pull of breezes." Mitchell looked at Hawthorne sadly. "I guess I can feel how my ability's been disconnected."

"That's a good thing," Dazai said from the door, Yosano beside him.

Hawthorne nodded and reached for Mitchell's hand again, and she threaded their fingers together once more. "Thank you," he said to Dazai, but he looked at Yosano, directing it at her, as well.

Yosano looked pleased with the scene before her. "What will you two do now?" she queried.

Hawthorne and Mitchell exchanged a look. The man of God turned back to the Agency members. "Thank you for everything, truly. But, I have one more request…"

Yosano raised an eyebrow and Dazai grinned with delighted curiosity. Mitchell, too, eyed him strangely….

\- ^-^3

He sat ramrod straight—or tried to—on the commuter train. Hawthorne kept fidgeting as he kept a wary eye on their alien surroundings. He also kept fidgeting partially because of the head resting comfortably on his left shoulder. "How can you be so calm?"

"Because I trust you," Mitchell replied nonchalantly, not even opening her eyes. "You planned so much while I was an unknowing prisoner in my own body, in my own head. And you've always had brilliant ideas. This is just another one of them."

He frowned and ran a hand through her hair, fathoming how light it felt now that it had been trimmed to her chin and her bangs moved freely without her hair pulled back. He squinted at his reflection in the window glass across the aisle, trying to connect the image of the man in the gray–green button-up and khaki pants with short hair with the idea of himself, since they were the one and the same. He tried to do the same with Mitchell, piecing together her character with the portrait of the woman wrapped around his left arm, dressed in the frilly lavender top and denims, her bobbed hair tickling her jawline as she nuzzled his shoulder and repositioned herself as the train took a turn smoothly.

Of course, this probably would be easier to picture _literally_ if he didn't have his glasses folded up in his shirt's breast pocket.

Hawthorne sighed quietly and gripped the straps of the black knapsack on his other arm, yet another purchase he'd asked the doctor to make, in addition to their contemporary outfits. Luckily, his emergency funds should still be able to carry them far past this leg of the trip, funds tucked away once more inside his Bible beside his cross, the Bible wrapped up in her sunhat, the only things they'd kept with them, mementos of a past life.

"What is it?" Mitchell asked, sensing his discomfort. She stole a peek at him.

"Just thinking that I'll need you to be my eyes as we exit Japan and head for Europe. Can't risk wearing them and being spotted, not while we're still within _his_ domain," he mumbled about his glasses, emphasizing the final pronoun so he didn't have to say Fitzgerald's name aloud. He didn't want to speak of the tycoon, because he still got the sense that their escape had been almost too easy. The sarcastic part of him wondered if maybe that meant Fitzgerald was a romantic…but he brushed the silly idea aside.

Mitchell picked her head up and looked up at him, her eyes big and soft. "I'll be more than your eyes, though, Nathaniel," she promised quietly, holding his hand firmly in hers.

His heart thumped in his chest, maybe even skipped a beat. After a pause, he leaned down to peck the top of her head, and he agreed to be the same for her.

\- ^-^3

 **YOOO. Okay. So. When I began writing this, I was only up to ch34, but I caught up to ch44 in the middle of this and I'm just having feels all over the place, so I really like this interpretation of the post-Moby Dick events. (Not to mention the panel in a later chapter that shows that all Hawthorne cares about is making Mitchell better. 8DDDD) ANYWAY. Yeah. This is slightly inspired by Sana's Doll Face Syndrome from** _ **Kodocha**_ **/** _ **Kodomo no Omocha**_ **, since I didn't want to write an amnesia fic; I aimed right for the feelings instead (*lol* mew made a pun ;P). But Hawthorne… I truly believe he'd do anything for his partner. And I like to think that both he and Mitchell were right: The Guild wouldn't bother coming after them, precisely because Fitzgerald's a romantic. Now, as to whether Alcott could've predicted Hawmitch running away… Eh. I dunno. She can't predict everything. And I took the idea of Dazai disabling Kouyou and ran with it (though I've always been intrigued by characters giving up their powers by binding them, as done in** _ **Charmed**_ **); I quite liked Mitchell's reasoning about making her and Hawthorne safe to live around others…but, of course, Dazai's right, that the Agency had to gain something from healing Mitchell. (Secretly, I think he and Yosano and Fukuzawa are romantics, too, which was why they came up with the condition they did.) But AHHHHH. My babies. ;w; I just. Need Hawmitch. Need them so much. Need them to be happy. If either of them dies in canon, I will cry well into the afterlife. ;w; Although I suppose it's a shame that Hawthorne would lose his ability after it's changed as a result of his trauma (kind of like a Patronus changing in** _ **Harry Potter**_ **), because I liked the cloaking—kind of like his version of Tanizaki's Light Snow. And BOY do I like writing Hawthorne as a Doubting Thomas… ._.; I realized that, too, in the middle of writing this. Poor boy. He's gonna be questioning the strength of his faith damn near every time I write him. XD**

 **ANYWAY! Thank you very much for reading, and please review! Even if you only love Hawmitch! :'D Though you might like my other [** _ **BSD**_ **] stories if you enjoyed this~!**

 **-mew-tsubaki -w-**


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